A Vacation from Maggascotchi
by Greene Apples
Summary: Sequel to our first fic Maggascotchi. Gov. Swann brilliantly tricks Jack, Norry, Liz, Will, Gillette, and Barbossa into spending some quality time together. All right, he tricks. But not so brilliantly. Beware of Natives from Pittsburgh. Updated!
1. Into the Mind of Governor Swann

To save yourself from being mildly to extremely confused, please read our first fic, Maggascotchi. ("Our" implying my sister and I--no, this is not some deranged writer with personality disorder. There are two of us behind these stories.) At any rate, here's the continuation. The narrative chapters will be interspersed with the Governor's personal thoughts.

Just when you thought you knew everything... :)

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July 1

Dear Diary Journal,

I appologize for scribbling. I must consciously remind myself that "diary" is not the proper, masculine term to use when I am recording the events of the day. Though I must admit, I like it better.

It is the miracle of miracles that I can even find the proper time to put down my thoughts. Port Royal—and my dwelling, specifically—has been upturned by rude, rambunctious rabble-rousers once again. But this time, pirates are not the only ones to blame. I can point fingers at a snotty Commodore, his blundering ex-Siamese twin brother, my hapless daughter, and my clueless son-in-law. Jack and Barbossa have actually caused less racket than I otherwise would have expected.

Why are these unlawful hooligans, piratical disgraces that once threatened my dear Elizabeth's life, _not_ in jail? Simply because I suffered an inexcusable change of heart. After we discovered Elizabeth had _not_ been kidnapped by some foolish-named pirate called Maggascotchi, and that she had merely staged the whole act, relief overwhelmed my reason. I was so happy to have my daughter back I could harbor no ill will towards anyone, so I allowed Jack Sparrow and Barbossa to walk free.

My amiability lasted about a week.

At first, I suffered no serious regrets when the two struggled to find employment and merge into proper citizenship; after all, years of living shameful lives are bursting full of habits hard to break. They were completely broke with nowhere to go, so I bit my tongue when Jack and Barbossa decided to move into the mansion. There were enough rooms—like closets and storage areas. However, they felt they needed more space, so Jack redesigned my master bedroom and moved me to the porch. Barbossa has occupied the kitchen and put his collection of stolen jewels and coins in my china dinette set. Then he stole the dinette set.

It was a bit much, but Elizabeth convinced me that it was the least we could do for the ones to whom we owed so much. As she pointed out, Jack was the one who had helped Will to find her; Barbossa was the one who had helped me to find her. "We should happily give them our dearest possessions," she declared. However, her mind started to change when Jack began trying on her corsets.

I knew not what future action to take. I could not very well evict them from my home. Such a thing would be callously ungrateful and potentially encourage them to return to their pirate ways. I implored Elizabeth to discuss the situation with her new husband Will Turner, but he admitted he could find no wrong in what Jack and Barbossa were doing. Truth be told, the young man has been a bit spacey lately. I am not sure whether he is immensely love-struck by my daughter or just enthralled with the legend that is Captain Jack Sparrow. He can find fault with neither. (Additionally, he has all the lemon meringue pie he wants, and Barbossa is proving to be a rather startlingly excellent cook.)

I realized, then, that I could not rightly evict either of them—but perhaps a force in uniform could. I called upon Commodore Norrington (who is not a force but _does_ wear a uniform) to set the laws of cordiality upon them, and as of a half hour ago he was still screaming at them to return his sword and untie him this instant. I have not the courage to see what has become of him.

Lieutenant Gillette has been an avid visitor as of late, especially when the Commodore has strolled in. The young boy has made it his purpose in life to revive a brotherly relationship with Norrington; alas, my other son could not want less of it. Norrington still is in shock and denial over the revealing of my "deep dark secret," though I know eventually reality will settle on him and he will have no other choice but to accept it. I have offered to take the two out to see the Port Royal baseball team for an afternoon game, but Norrington claims he is allergic to leather gloves, wooden bats, freshly mowed field grass, and ballpark hotdogs. Which is why I have written a series of letters imploring the league to replace said components with pillowcases, plumbing pipes, Astroturf and Veggie Burgers. The reply frankly stated that Veggie Burgers were a ludicrous suggestion and simply out of the question. They are currently working on the rest, though.

Journal, I believe my dining room is on fire, but I cannot be sure whether or not that smoke is from there or the parlor. I would put down my feather pen to check—but I truly fear the worst. What can I do with these people? I cannot have them here and yet I cannot evict them! I feel I need a vacation—

No, that is it! _I_ do not need a vacation, _they do_! Brilliant! I will send them all on a vacation, away from this place, away from _me_. They can go on a hiatus from Port Royal, where they can strengthen their friendship and learn to interact in a civilized, adult manner with one another.

I believe Jack Sparrow just accused Norrington of being a "Big-Nosed Whiney-Baby." Yes. I do believe "adult manner" was an apt phrase.

I will contact the Harbor Master at once. Since we managed to sink half his ships, he might be slightly wary of lending us another. I must see about renting one of those private planes he has recently purchased. Strange how these anachronisms sporadically drop into the picture.

I hear Barbossa calling out for Jack to retrieve the marshmallows for roasting. How sad that this is my life. No matter. Soon I will have them all whisked away to…to…perhaps Jack's old island that he so often was marooned on? How interesting a situation that would be! They would all be forced to get along and work together in a primitive setting, away from the bustle of city life with booming businesses and teeming crowds. A wonderful idea, if I do say so myself.

Getting them there may be a slight problem. I hardly expect any of them to express enthusiasm over the idea. I might have to make a few harmless, white lies to get them to board the plane.

I could easily convince Norrington to go if he thought that the trip would take them to a foreign jail, where Jack and Barbossa would be disposed.

Gillette would love a chance to spend some quality time with Norrington. I will simply say that is the purpose of the flight.

I will tell Jack that they are headed for Tortuga and surely arriving in time for Happy Hour.

Barbossa…perhaps a discount flea market that sells really big hats?

Will is easy. I will inform him that he will be touring the world's largest lemon meringue pie ever baked.

And Elizabeth would leap at the chance of visiting a spa of some sorts; I could even say that the idea is to have her male friends reformed in etiquette and appearance.

Perfect. Everything is seamless.

Gillette just burst in asking whether or not I especially liked the greater half of the downstairs. Apparently, it is now crisply charred. It appears I will have much refurbishing to do while my guests are vacationing.

_While my guests are vacationing_. Ahh. What a pleasant thought.

And now to make the grand announcement. I am sure they will be simply delighted.

Shall write later,

Governor Swann


	2. Turbulence

"So who else is _simply_ _delighted _with this vacation?" Norrington griped, sarcastically enthusiastic, as he threw himself down in a window seat. Glancing out, he found to much annoyance that after five dragging hours of flight time, their peripatetic plane was still soaring over rolling blue seas. Though he was thrilled at the prospect of ditching Jack and Barbossa permanently in some distant jail, he hadn't meant for the prison to be _so _distant that travel time took up over half his Saturday.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and examined her nails again.

"Have they changed in the last five minutes, luv?" Jack queried with a smile, leaning over the seat in front of him so he could peer closer.

"Hey, not so close," Norrington snapped defensively, poking Jack back in his seat. "Miss Swann doesn't need pirate breath in her face."

"It's not 'Miss Swann' anymore—it's Mrs. Turner," Will corrected, patting his wife affectionately on the hand. He sighed dreamily. "What a lovely wedding we had."

"Oh, no," moaned Norrington, fearing another flashback from Matrimony Boy.

Barbossa shrugged, impartial. "It wasn't that great. Nobody had anything to steal."

"But there was pie. Lemon meringue. It was beautiful," Will reminded him, glazy-eyed.

"And rum. There was rum."

The Commodore examined Jack with disdain, criticizing, "That you hoarded the entire night. I don't believe anyone else ventured close enough for a taste."

"Aye. I don't know what yer complainin' about, though, Norry. The rum's a bit too strong fer yer weak stomach. Ye grow faint jess lookin' in the mirror." He paused. "Then again, that's understandable."

"All right, all right," Elizabeth cut in. "That's enough. We should at least try to humor each other when we're together. _Pretend _to be grateful if you have to. Remember, my father was kind enough to pay for our flight."

"And even after he paid for the wedding," nodded Will.

Elizabeth paused. "Well, almost all of it. We did pick up the tab for the priest."

Jack couldn't help but laugh. "That be right! Hey, Gillette, ye must've hired the most expensive priest this side of the Caribbean!"

Gillette reddened, lifting his nervous eyes from his paperback edition of _Ways to Form Lasting Bonds: The Siamese Twin Edition_. "Well, after the original priest bolted, I was short on time. I did the best I could."

"What was the bill? $900 an hour, I recall?" Norrington prodded, enjoying seeing Gillette squirm uncomfortably at the memory.

"I be in the wrong business," muttered Barbossa. He dug through his knapsack, yanking out a thin, square black object. "Maybe I should search for ordination degrees…"

Jack narrowed his eyes. "What is that?"

Flipping it open, Barbossa revealed his latest prized possession to the others. "It's a laptop. I'm looking into online degrees. You know, to have something to fall back on when my pirating days are over."

Will blinked. "Where did you get a laptop?"

"Actually, I stole it from you. It was Gillette's wedding gift to the bride and groom."

"I thought that looked familiar," Gillette said.

"And you're going to enroll in college?" Norrington repeated with amusement. "Please. These institutions have standards to uphold."

Barbossa scrolled down, ignoring him. "Hmm… Pastor Degrees, Priest Degrees, Voodoo Master Degrees… _Genetics_…"

"Sign up fer that last one!" encouraged Jack, reaching for the computer. "Maybe ye could learn how to fix Norry's nose."

Elizabeth sighed, irritated already. The men were once again showing the maturity level of two-year-olds. She turned to Will, only to find that her husband had dozed off on Gillette's shoulder, and the Lieutenant was tentatively trying to straighten his slumped head before his trickle of drool drizzled onto his shirt.

Gillette pinched his nose. "Whew, does his breath reek of peanuts!"

"So _that's_ where all those free snacks went!" Jack said, slapping his knee and pouting a bit. "He'll be thirsty in a few minutes—quick! Save me rum!"

Norrington gave Elizabeth a somewhat sympathetic, self-righteous smile. "I expect you are _thrilled _with that marriage, Miss Swann."

"It's Mrs. Turner," Elizabeth corrected curtly, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder, where they flapped into Jack's face.

"Ow, my eye," muttered Jack, dodging back as his bottle of alcohol dropped, clattering to the ground. "Don't take it out on me luv. After all—"

The plane gave a sudden lurch, cutting his sentence short. Norrington, clutching his seat with white knuckles, muttered over the turbulence, "Who's flying this thing, anyway?"

"My father would appoint only the best Port Royal had to offer," Elizabeth quickly assured them.

"And what a _superb_ selection to choose from!" Norrington added with facetious enthusiasm. "Because we all know Port Royal is just _crawling_ with pilots."

"It is?" Will asked, groggily waking from his nap.

"Wouldn't they be _flying_, not crawling?" put in Jack.

Norrington threw up his hands. "Sarcasm! It's called sarcasm! My best quality that is just too superior for your primitive minds. Along with my charm, good looks, and sense of style."

"And then you see his nose," Jack said, "and it all goes down from there."

"Ha-ha," Will smiled, "a 'nose-dive.'"

The plane took cue and dropped significantly once more. A few metallic rumblings and engine grindings rattled the windows. Elizabeth reached for Will's hand, but he had already clutched on to Jack, shielding his eyes.

"Are we going to crash?" he whimpered.

"'Course not!" Jack replied heartily. Not a second later, he was rummaging through the serving cart, which was currently sliding down the middle of the aisle as the plane tilted. "I propose a toast! To flying!"

Again, the plane jostled and dropped another thousand feet.

"And to crashing! Drinks all around!"

Barbossa frantically clicked away on his laptop. "Hold on. There has to be something on here about what to do in this situation—"

Elizabeth closed her eyes, wishing for some peace and quiet. "Barbossa, what do you care? Aren't you supposed to be dead already?"

Gillette craned his neck over the others to look for some safety words of advice from Norrington, but he had disappeared. He managed to catch a glimpse of the door leading to the pilot's cockpit, which had oddly been recently opened.

With his uniform's coattails swinging dramatically behind him, Norrington barged into the cockpit. "I demand to know what you think you're doing, because you're obviously not _flying_," he snapped. A hunched figure loomed over the controls, every now and then giving them a hard pull or push that sent the plane wheeling unsteadily in the stratosphere. Norrington stumbled, made a desperate dive for the empty co-pilot seat, and managed to steady himself temporarily. "I said, _what do you think you're doing_?"

"You must be the Commodore. What a pleasure to see you—again."

Incredulous, Norrington crawled closer to the pilot, only to find that he was the same bantering Harbor Master who had given him the second-biggest, second-grandest, second-most-expensive ship out on the docks the day he had sailed out in search of Maggascotchi.

"You were expecting Captain Kirk?" the Harbor Master inquired with a carefree grin before turning his attention back to the controls. "Going _dooowwwnnn_…"

Norrington felt his stomach lurch upwards as the plane dived, like it had just been tossed above the ceiling. Grabbing the Harbor Master, he gave his sleeve a hasty shake.

"Are you insane? Lemon Meringue Boy just ate twenty bags of peanuts back there, and I don't happen to see any stewardesses ready to mop up any messes!"

"Speaking of messes," the Harbor Master cut in, "what ever happened to my ships that you rented?"

Norrington, with his face turning a seaweed shade of green with the falling altitude, fumbled for his sword. "Listen. I could care less about your ships. Right now, I just want to make sure my precious feet touch solid ground again. Now, you're going to find a suitable place and _land this plane immediately_, do you understand? That is a _command_ straight from the Royal Navy!"

"Well, my commands come straight from the Governor," replied the Harbor Master. "And according to his directions, we ain't quite there yet."

"This is ridiculous," the Commodore muttered between clenched teeth as he returned his sword to its sheath. "I don't know what exotic prison Governor Swann planned on dumping Jack and Barbossa in, but we're certainly taking a round-about way to get there. And of course, he makes it a grand family affair."

"Is the company upsetting to ye, eh?"

"_Upsetting_?" Norrington looked aghast. "You try prying pie out of Will's fingers every twenty minutes; or try to dodge Jack's breath so it doesn't contaminate your breathing space; or try to rid Gillette of the ludicrous idea that we're related; or try to figure out why Barbossa still isn't dead!" The Commodore paused momentarily, wiping the dimples of sweat from his creasing brow. "And Elizabeth, may we all pity the beautiful girl. Doomed to spend the rest of her days _without me_… And now the Governor sends us all on this torturous escapade. I frankly don't see why we just don't make short of it and dump Jack and Barbossa out the back of the plane now—"

The plane's engine rumbled, seemingly louder and more grating than before. The Harbor Master looked up, realizing that Norrington had ceased griping, leaving the cockpit in silence except for the mechanical humming.

"That's it," he murmured. A slow grin wrought its way along his face. "Ha-ha. That's _it_. Brilliant."

"Glad to see you chipper again, Commodore. Best be heading back to your seat now—"

With a flash of metallic light, Norrington's sword had been expertly positioned under the Harbor Master's chin, wavering ever so slightly. "I don't think so," the Commodore interrupted lightly. "We've had a slight change of plans. Do you see that island over there, just at the edge of the horizon?"

"Uh…no…"

"_That_ one, with all the vegetation?"

"Oh, yes, there she be."

"No, that's your postcard from Hawaii on the dashboard."

"Oh, how silly of me."

Norrington swiped the memento down, shredding it in multiple halves with disgust. "Don't mock me, Harbor Master."

"I do have a name, you know."

"Well, for all purposes of this story, we don't really care."

"Why don't we just start calling you Guy with Wig, then?"

"Because half the people here have wigs. And I'm more important anyway."

"I think—"

"_Stop distracting me_!" shrieked Norrington, brandishing his sword again. "Now, do you see that island or should I take over the controls?"

"The island," sighed the Harbor Master. A vague outline of land hovered in gray mist, slightly silhouetted by the waning afternoon sun. He blinked and hastily checked his map. "Actually, that _is _where we're—"

"Silence! Now, where do you keep the parachutes?"

The Harbor Master looked up at him again. "Commodore, are you seriously going to toss Captain Jack Sparrow and Barbossa out of the plane? As if they were…luggage?"

Norrington scoffed. "Luggage? Please, don't regard them that highly. Where are the parachutes?"

Seeing the approaching point of the sword, the Harbor Master reluctantly gestured over to a compartment right and above the controls. "There."

The Harbor Master watched as Norrington hurriedly ripped free two vests.

"Commodore, really. Reconsider. I hardly think Captain Jack and Barbossa would appreciate—"

"Enough! These parachutes aren't for those bumbling idiots! They're for me and Elizabeth."

"You and Elizabeth?"

"Yes, is that clear? I'm not wasting my time any longer. Now, you're going to listen very closely."

"Very closely--?"

"You're going to fly over to that island, and then—"

"Over to that--?"

"Yes, you're going over to that island, and then you're going to fake—"

"I'm going to fake—?"

"_Stop repeating me_!"

"Oh, so sorry. Carry on."

"You're going to fly over to that island, and then you're going to fake a crash landing."

The Harbor Master stared blankly.

Norrington drew in a careful breath, repeating evenly, "I said, you're going to fake a crash landing."

No response.

"Are you listening to me!"

"You said I can't repeat!"

"Are you a parrot? Must you repeat people to have a conversation?"

"Must I?"

"Are you mocking me?"

"Am I?"

"Stop with the rhetorical questions."

The Harbor Master stopped.

Taking a breath, Norrington paused, his face turning from airsick green to frustrated red so quickly he looked like a streetlight. "Now you made me forget what I was saying!"

PLEASE STAND BY _BEEEEP…_ THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM 


	3. Crash Landing

"Why are you holding those parachutes?" the Harbor Master inquired ten minutes later.

"Oh, that's right!" Norrington perked up. "My plan! You will fly over to that island, where you will fake—_fake_—a crash landing."

"How will I…?"

"Just do whatever you've been doing with the controls."

"Like this—"

"Not _yet_. Once we're over the island, then you can. At which point, I will whisk Elizabeth up in my arms, strap on the parachutes, and rescue her from certain doom. We will safely float down to the island, where I will immediately set to signal for help from Port Royal. The Navy will send in the most impressive fleet of ships, and Elizabeth will fawn on me as her heroic and stunningly handsome rescuer."

"You're 0 for 2, there, Commodore."

"Nobody asked _you_, Harbor Master," seethed Norrington, waving his sword. "As I was saying, she will fall back in love with me, have her marriage with that blacksmith annulled, and then I will live happily ever after with Elizabeth as my wife."

The Harbor Master grimaced slightly, though Norrington was too enraptured in his daydream to notice. Finally, the pilot broke through. "Wait. You said _fake_ a crash. What am I supposed to do after you and Elizabeth jump out?"

Norrington waved an unconcerned hand. "I don't know. Do whatever you like—I don't care. Dispose of Jack and Barbossa; that would be best I suppose. Find a nice tribe of monkeys for Will to reintegrate himself into. Tell Gillette he's needed somewhere _far away from me_. Sounds like a plan, all right? All right. Go to it, then."

When Norrington returned from the cockpit, he found the others more or less where he had left them. Will was rummaging through his empty peanut bag. Jack was finishing off the rest of Will's peanuts. Barbossa seemed a bit too interested in the stolen laptop. Elizabeth seemed a bit too interested in herself. Gillette…well, Norrington didn't really care.

Strutting into the middle of the aisle, the Commodore regally announced, "I believe our plane is going down."

Will muttered something about peanuts. Norrington coughed.

"I _said_, I _believe_ our _plane _is going _down_."

As if to reiterate his statement, the plane shuddered and dropped. Jack, wiping his salty fingers off on his tattered pants, reached for the complimentary drinks and replied evenly, "No, that's all right, it's been doing this the entire time."

"No, no. _This time_, we are officially going to crash." Norrington glanced out the window, spotting the approaching outline of his island escape. "Yes, we should be going down in roughly thirty minutes."

"How do you know that?" Elizabeth absently asked, still preoccupied with her nails.

"Because, my dear," Norrington said righteously, "I was _exclusively _informed by the pilot."

Jack stared dubiously at him from over the green-tinted rim of a half-empty bottle. "He told you were we going to crash a half hour in _advance_? That strikes me as a bit odd."

"Well, Jack, these things take time. I hardly expect _you _to understand the aerodynamics at work, the intricate tail winds and mechanics—"

The plane grotesquely lurched and Will shrieked, the empty peanut bag crinkling in his tense hands.

"All you need to know is we're crashing," Norrington summed up quickly, "and Elizabeth and I are leaving." He gave a brief nod. "Cheers and best of luck to all of you. Come along, my dear."

Elizabeth finally noticed what Norrington had swiped from the cockpit. She stared at him, not so much as in hesitation but with indignation. "Um, Commodore, are you expecting me to _jump out_? _With you_?"

"Of course. Here is your parachute. Let us escape this plane and these lunatics while we still can!"

"Commodore, I am absolutely _not_ jumping out of this airplane!" Elizabeth protested, yanking her hand back even as Norrington took her wrist. "Listen, we are _not_ going to crash. My father appointed the pilot himself."

"And that reassures you, love?" Jack asked, taking a final swig of alcohol.

"No one asked you, Jack. And no one asked _me_ if I wanted to leave the plane. Commodore, take this stupid thing—" She shoved the parachute back into his chest— "and get away!"

"But Elizabeth—"

"If _you_ want to jump, feel free. The hatch is right down there."

"But the other parachute…"

"One's for you, one's for your nose," Jack explained perkily. "Will, good mate, pass that rum would ye?"

Norrington watched in disgust as Will nervously fumbled for another bottle. "Uh…Norrington…if Elizabeth isn't leaving, maybe I could…?"

"Will," snapped Elizabeth. "You'd just _leave me_ here? Just like that?"

Embarrassed, Will uncorked the bottle and passed it over to Jack, who instead refused it and pushed it back towards Will. "No, mate, you drink it." He nodded over at Elizabeth, whose face had creased and reddened with annoyance. "Ye'll need it more than me. Cheers to marriage."

"Gee, what a fearless husband," she muttered, crossing one leg over the other. "The plane goes down, and he'll grab the parachute instead of offering it to his new wife. How romantic, Will."

"But—But the plane _isn't_ going down," Will stuttered. The plane rattled and heaved.

"Then why did you want the parachute?" retorted Elizabeth.

"Because…" Will paused. "Because _Norrington _was going to jump!"

"Since when is that a tragedy?" asked Jack. "Will, are you going to drink that?"

Norrington had had enough. Furiously waving the parachutes, he yelled, "I am telling all of you, this plane _is going to crash_! And Elizabeth, unless you want to ruin a perfect storybook ending, you are coming with me and the two of us are jumping out of here _right now_!"

Elizabeth stared icily at him. "My father promised we'd land safely at the salon, and I am not budging from this seat until we do."

Her comment piqued enough of Barbossa's interest to convince the pirate to look up from his laptop. "The salon?"

"Yes, the beauty salon," sneered Elizabeth, "where all of you were going to get the makeover you so desperately need. It was supposed to be a surprise, from my father and I to all of you. And now you've all ruined it."

"The salon?" repeated Barbossa again. "But he told me that we were flying off to a place with a great selection of really big hats."

Jack chuckled, spewing wine. "Hardly. We were heading for Tortuga for a day of drinks!"

"You've had enough drinks for one day," snarled Norrington. "Actually, you two clueless pirates were being—_are being_—ditched in the furthest prison from Port Royal we can find. You can thank Governor Swann for _that_."

"But what about lemon meringue?" questioned Will, so caught up in his thoughts of dessert that he neglected to notice Jack plucking another bottle from his hand. "He told me that we're gong to see the largest lemon pie ever made this side of the hemisphere."

"Will," Norrington said gravely, "I believe you have a hemisphere missing from your _brain_."

"Are we going to see that, too?"

"_No_! We're throwing the two pirate idiots in jail! But first, Elizabeth and I—"

Norrington suddenly stopped, hearing fragmented sniffles coming from his elbow level. Gillette was wiping his eyes with a corner of his blue Lieutenant sleeve, looking pathetically disappointed.

"What, pray tell, is wrong with _you_?" Norrington asked impatiently.

"Oh, nothing, bro," whimpered Gillette, wringing out his damp sleeve. "It's just… Dad told _me_ that today was supposed to be a fun Special Brothers' Day Out with you."

Norrington cringed at the word "bro," nearly keeled over at the word "Dad," and had to be scraped off the floor after collapsing at the word "fun."

"Norry, are you okay?"

The Commodore's skewed and fuzzy view displayed two Gillettes peering down at him. _Wonderful_, he thought, half-deranged, _Gillette's found another Siamese twin_. Suddenly, his vision righted itself, and he quickly pried himself away from the Lieutenant. He stumbled to his feet.

"Whatever the Governor told you, _all of you_," he declared, "is nothing but lies! We are _not_ going to a salon; we are _not_ going to buy hats; we are _not_ going to Tortuga; we are not going—Will, yours is too stupid to count!—and we are _not_, absolutely _not_, over-my-dead-body-_not_, frolicking around on a brother outing!"

"Well, no one said we had to frolic—"

"Elizabeth! Spare me my sanity! Take this parachute and let's leave before we drop to their level!"

"So instead we'll just drop out of a plane?"

"_With a parachute_!" shrieked Norrington. He rifled the pack into Elizabeth's unsuspecting arms and strapped his own around his shoulders. "Come along, my dear. We haven't much time now."

Not hearing any further protests, he led the way down the aisle—it wasn't quite a church aisle, but it was an aisle—hearing a clatter of uncertain footsteps from behind him.

"Don't worry, Elizabeth, darling," Norrington muttered, blindly struggling to find the cord of his parachute. He loosened it from the pack so it would be at close proximity once he leaped, then knelt down to the floor to examine the hatch. "Everything will work out quite all right. Once Will's out of the picture, the world will be righted on its axis again. And I'll find you a salon, if you'd like. It will be quite perfect, actually. Now, where's the stupid handle to this stupid hatch…?"

With stomach-lurching rapidity, the plane stalled in the air and began its final plummet. The force of drop sent Norrington reeling downwards, where he solidly knocked his head against the metal hatch. Automatically, it swung open. A vacuum of air rushed up through the hole, raveled up Norrington and his partner, and sucked them cleanly out of the airplane.

…

"Elizabeth," Will said back in the passengers' seats, "didn't Norrington want you to go with him?"

She never once glanced up. "No. That stole-away donkey seemed much more anxious to take the parachute for himself, anyway."

Will blinked, dumbfounded. "Donkey?"

…

"ISN'T THIS GRAND, ELIZABETH?" Norrington was trying to shout, but the atmosphere got caught in his wide-open mouth and suppressed most of the words.

However, it failed to suppress the scream when he turned in midair to search out Elizabeth, who he thought had followed him from the plane.

But she hadn't. It was Will's blacksmith donkey spiraling after him from above, its four legs careening out in the blue sky with the parachute snuggly fit around its middle section like an awkward saddle. It sounded like it whinnied; Norrington would have sworn it even laughed.

Norrington wasn't laughing much now. His secure, faultless plan had been ruined by Will again—even worse, at the hands—_shoes_—of Will's donkey. Norrington had been outsmarted by an ass—there had to be some irony there, but at the moment, Norrington could only stare in outrage at the beast falling with him to the island below.

The donkey noticed that the two would be landing in the trees. With a quick bite on the string, the animal's parachute burst open in a white puff, reminding a fuming Norrington to do the same.

The last anyone on the plane saw of them, the two vanished into a thicket of mossy jungle. From the looks of it, Norrington had selflessly broken the donkey's fall.


	4. Political Decisions

Dear Diary Journal,

Our Good King has kindly pointed out to me that, by sending off the truculent group, I have depleted nearly everyone of importance in Port Royal. We are, in his words, defenseless without a leader of the Royal Navy (Commodore Norrington) and weaponless without one of the largest and finest producers of swords and firepower (Will the blacksmith). Gone is the refined dignity of a self-assured woman (Elizabeth), and the Good King has accused us of being bereft of humor and lollygagging now that Jack, Barbossa, and Gillette have left.

I leisurely assured him that I was here. Then he did a strange thing. He started to laugh. The chuckling faded off into a cough, and he apologized, explaining that he has a quite troublesome case of emphysema. The poor Good King. God save his health.

Therefore, after strenuous contemplation, I have taken it upon my own shoulders to cure his emphysema. Now granted, I am no doctor. (Otherwise, I would be able to diagnose what that conspicuous growth is in the middle of Commodore Norrington's face. How I digress.) In a benevolent attempt to save our Good King, I have decided to re-appoint people to these important positions that the bickering group has left vacant.

First, I designated Lieutenant Groves as interim Commodore of the British Royal Navy. His qualifications are a mystery to me, and I've heard him speak but once. (Prior to that rare vocal occasional, I had assumed he was a mute.) But he spoke with such regal poise, not at all insecure in the fact that our Navy had botched another relatively simple procedure of capturing a pirate. I believe Lieutenant Grove uttered profoundly, "That has got to be the best pirate I've ever seen."

Jolly good show. As I mentioned before, I know as much about his qualifications as I do about the terrain of Mars, but I've never been to Mars and am not particularly keen on such wild ideas. I don't quite know how that relates, but if the last sentence is read backwards, it sounds quite compelling. At any rate, Lieutenant Groves has a rather convincing wig, and what more can an effective Commodore need?

My second issue concerned that of the blacksmith. While Port Royal has a flurry of metal artisans, my sole employment of Brown's particular business has isolated many other blacksmiths in town who feel slightly hostile to my favoritism. I believe throwing a few horseshoes through my porch window that one day made their point. It certainly left an impression on me.

I would not be pondering whom to turn to for weaponry production if Will's employer, Mr. Brown, was off the bottle and in the right state of mind. However, that is not the case. After losing his best worker and furry companion (the donkey and Will, respectively), he has lapsed into a depression, and I fear for his metal health. Yes, _metal_, not _mental_. I have not seen him neglect bashing iron for quite some time. He spends his pitiful hours plopped on that wooden chair in the middle of the hay-strewn blacksmith shop, drinking Captain Jack (the _beer_, not the pirate—let us not picture the latter) and steadily worrying about how stale the donkey feed has become.How I worry.

So I have set out to find him a companion to replace the two he temporarily lost. I have heard of a renowned blacksmith myself…her name escapes me at the moment (it is such a funny myriad of letters). I have specifically sent for her by ways of the most effective communication device known to man: The ISO pages in the Classified Section.

The article, with abbreviations explained afterwards, reads as follows:

**RJG **seeking **40-50-yr. BS **woman.

Must like metal and occasional,

life-threatening attacks on Pt. Royal.

**RJG **likes wigs **BYPNI**.

**RJG**: Round, jolly governor

**BS**: Blacksmith

**BYPNI**: But you're probably not interested

This may be the most effective step I've ever taken as Governor. I am giddy with the thought. Furthermore, I anticipate that this blacksmithing woman can double as the self-assured female the Good King says is missing now that Elizabeth is gone.

The only remaining roles that need to be filled are the "humor and lollygagging" positions of the two pirates and Norrington's ex-Siamese twin, Gillette. How shall I replace those three? No ideas have come to me yet, and I have been increasingly preoccupied with replacing the carpeting and wallpaper downstairs, which said three men have dutifully destroyed. Their substitutes must have wit like none seen before. They will need a charismatic imbecile persona. They will need panache. And preferably, better hygiene than the originals.

How will I find such striking characteristics in Port Royal? I feel myself growing weary with this troublesome situation. Yet waver I shall not—for the Good King's health, I shall rise victorious over this adversity!

Just as soon as I re-dye my wig. I've found that pink truly is becoming. Perhaps Ex-Lieutenant Commodore Groves can instate a wig color-coordinating system for the Navy. I must take it up with the fine man this evening at dinner.


	5. Welcome to Pittsburgh?

If there's such a thing as colliding gracefully into a four-foot-wide tree, Norrington did it. Or so he liked to claim. And if there's such a thing as heroically breaking the donkey's fall, Norrington did that, too. Though the donkey might feel otherwise.

The Commodore had trampled out of the jungle, flinging braches out of his wig as he went along. He aimed for the donkey but missed horrendously on several occasions. Unfazed, the animal trotted after him.

"Well, Elizabeth, you're certainly looking _gorgeous_ today," snarled Norrington, charging on ahead as the _clip-clop-clip_ annoyingly trailed on his heels. "Tell me, darling, what is that _fabulous_ scent you're wearing?" He placed a finger on his bottom lips, turning his eyes upwards as if examining the air for answers. "Hmm, I don't know, could it be, um, perhaps _manure_!"

The donkey whinnied smugly.

"Oh, well, Elizabeth, I'm _so_ glad you're having such a _grand_ time. Because this is _just what I had in mind_." Unrelenting in his pace, he flailed his arms outwards with overdramatic enthusiasm, as if encompassing the vine-tangled jungle. "With no way of rescue, now we can live among the flora and fauna and the screech monkeys and boa constrictors and the poisonous mushrooms for all time. Aren't you _so happy_ you joined me?"

The donkey had a mouth full of mushrooms and was too busy chomping to answer.

Norrington would have kept stalking through the jungle had he not gotten his boot caught in a particularly stubborn vine. He had been struggling to yank himself out for some time when an oddly familiar voice floated towards him.

"That was quite a smooth landing for a plane crash."

The Commodore's head shot up. "Elizabeth?"

"The plane looks in perfect condition too. Odd."

"Elizabeth!" Norrington yanked himself forward, but his foot remained tied in the vine, and so he fell face-first into the jungle dirt. He pretended he didn't notice swallowing that bug. "Elizabeth!"

"Well, so long as we can patch up whatever needs repairs," her voice drifting, "I see no reason why we have to plague ourselves with this island for longer than necessary."

"E-_liz_-a-_beth_!"

"Perhaps we should talk to the pilot."

"Perhaps you should find _Norrington_!" the Commodore griped, tugging his foot, which was still vainly clasped in the vine. On a whim, he glanced up at the donkey. The furry animal's jaw slacked back and forth as he continued munching on the vegetation.

"Hey—hey, donkey. Come on, old boy. Go and get Elizabeth for me. Or Will. You like Will, don't you? Go get Will, bring him back!"

Dully, the animal stared back. His eyes glittered blank as stones.

"Come _on_, good old boy. I'm stuck here, but you go ahead. Be a hero! You'd like that, wouldn't you? Of _course you would_. We'd make you a regular in the Royal Navy. I swear it. Give you a medal and everything." Norrington waited, expectantly as the donkey leaned closer, seemingly complying, anticipating further instruction.

And then he passed out, with Norrington successfully breaking his fall again.

Grunting, the Commodore could just faintly make out Elizabeth's fading voice.

"Did you hear something?"

Another distant voice joined the discussion. "I hear the clinking of bottles! Where's me rum!"

"Shut up, Jack, you drunken _idiot_!" muttered Norrington, his mouth smothered by the unconscious donkey on top of him. "Elizabeth!"

It was to his greatest relief that Norrington heard the crunching of feet nearing, and when his fellow plane passengers appeared before him, they all took pity on his poor condition.

"Oh, Donkey!" cried Will, scooping the animal up off of Norrington. "I thought I'd never see you again!"

"He's a regular Geranimo," Norrington seethed. "Does somebody want to help me with this vine?"

"What happened to him?" asked Jack, poking a wavering finger at the animal.

"Looks a bit shaky to me," observed Elizabeth.

"He was eating mushrooms," offered Norrington quickly, still gesturing to his trapped snared foot. "Now, about _me_—"

"Perhaps we should find a doctor, Will," Elizabeth suggested. "Smelling salts."

"Great idea, Elizabeth. Maybe that'll revive him."

"No, not for the donkey. For me." She pinched her upturned nose, frowning. "He reeks. I'm feeling lightheaded just _smelling _him."

"What a wonderful idea, my darling. Let's go get the smelling salts together!" Norrington cut in, then held a hand palm-up, as if suddenly remembering something he'd forgotten. "Oh, wait, how _silly_ of me. I'm _stuck _in a _vine_ and I _can't move_!"

"Too bad you can still move your mouth," lamented Jack. He sighed, but his drunken stupor had put him in an amiable mood. "What the heck. Let's cut him out."

"Uh, Jack, I want a _sober_ person to cut me out."

"Well aren't you a bit picky today, mate." Jack shrugged unsteadily, tossing his sword in Will's direction. It landed nearly five feet in the wrong direction. "'Ere. Ye do it. I'll go check on those smelling salts."

The second the words had left his mouth, an odd humming filled the air. At first, Norrington, Jack, Will, and Elizabeth stared uncertainly at each other, their eyes traveling out of the jungle towards the noise again.

Norrington cocked his head. "Locusts?"

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Bees?"

Will patted his donkey's head, worriedly. "A swarm of blenders?"

"_Blenders_?" Norrington repeated flatly.

Will shrugged. "Or the airplane."

"THE AIRPLANE!"

The group madly dashed out from the jungle—well, they tried to, at any rate. Elizabeth more or less delicately pranced her way out, Jack swooned and wobbled, and Will was a bit preoccupied trying to lug his unconscious donkey with him.

The plane, unscathed from its "crash landing," sat harmlessly in the middle of a clearing outside of the jungle. Its propeller was twirling madly and its engine was making a metallically hollow _chug-chug-chug-womping _noise.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" cried Jack, waving his arms madly at the plane as they emerged from the vegetation. "Don't go! We need that plane! Please! Don't go! Don't go! Don't—"

"It's _not going_," Elizabeth broke in, slapping Jack over the head. She indicated the propeller, which had slowed to a pathetically laboring twirl. "Something's wrong."

"I should say so." Jack was no longer looking at the plane, though, but towards the jungle again. Norrington had just emerged, his uniform frayed and torn.

"Wha' 'appened to yer boots?" Jack inquired, still swaying from rum.

"I had to leave them in the vine so I could manage to get out," Norrington said thorugh clenched teeth. "Remember? You abandoned me?"

"We did no such thing," Elizabeth replied in a huff. "We merely forgot about you."

"You have an olive branch in your hair, Socrates," Jack added with amusement.

"Shut up." Norrington yanked out the twig, nearly pulling his hairpiece off entirely. His disheveled wig was looking more and more Don King-ish by the second. Changing the subject seemed like an appropriate motive of self-defense. "When is the plane leaving?"

"It's not leaving." Barbossa, who had up until this point not made a second appearance, now emerged from within the plane. His laptop was tucked neatly under his arm. As he hopped out from the side door, he informed the rest of the group, "We're out of fuel."

Norrington scoffed. "That's ridiculous. We can't _possibly_ be out of fuel. The Governor assured me we had plenty for a trip to our destination plus a trip back. We should have only used _half_ of what we had so far."

"Yes, well, apparently, weaving up and down and crash landing consumes much more fuel than what a typical flight would." Barbossa added concisely, "The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. And we zig-zagged a bit."

Elizabeth dubiously glanced him over. "Is that what the pilot said?" Elizabeth inquired.

"No, that's what my college Internet course said," replied Barbossa, patting his computer affectionately. "Genius stuff."

"Well, what did the _pilot _say?"

"The pilot hasn't said much. He apparently doesn't speak English."

"What?" Norrington snorted. "Of course he does! He's the Harbor Master!"

Jack looked at him piteously as if he had lost his mind. "And that makes perfect sense, a Harbor Master flying a plane."

"The plane in itself makes perfect sense," retorted the Commodore.

"And so does the landing strip," chimed in Will.

The others blinked. "Landing strip?"

"Sure. The thing we landed on." Will, his arms still supporting the donkey, nodded off towards the plane. Sure enough, a perfectly constructed landing strip had been paved. No wonder the landing had been so smooth.

Norrington scratched in chin, perplexed. "Who would've paved a landing strip in the middle of a deserted island?"

"Pittsburgh?"

"Oh, yes, Will, I'm sure. How stupid of me. Of _course_ it would be Pittsburgh."

"That's what the sign says."

Stupefied, Norrington and the rest followed Will's pointing finger. Just beyond the plane, a yellow, diamond-shaped sign on top of a pole stood, proclaiming,

PROPERTY OF PITTSBURGH 

"We landed in Pittsburgh?" questioned Jack.

"Of course not, you idiot," snapped Norrington, "unless Pittsburgh suddenly is an island."

"Well, the Harbor Master suddenly is the pilot."

"Well, I'm suddenly getting stupider listening to you talk."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, disgusted. "Barbossa, are you _sure_ the Harbor Master isn't fluent in English?"

The pirate shrugged. "You could ask him yourself."

"I think I will."

"Well, you can't now."

"Why not?"

"Because he's gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"He said he's going to find some fruit."

Pause. "Wait, I thought you just said he couldn't speak English."

"I did."

"Then—then how could he have told you where he was going?"

Something dawned on Barbossa. "Ohh, good point."

"So he _can_ speak English?"

"Yes, I guess he must." Barbossa snapped his fingers, annoyed. "Darn it, and he sounded so convincing when he said he didn't understand a word of what I was saying!"

Understandably, Elizabeth was confused. "How did he say it?"

"He said, and he looked at me so sincerely, too, 'I swear to you, Barbossa, I have absolutely no clue to what it is you're saying to me. None at all. You see, my good friend, I don't speak a word of English. Never learned it. Sad story, really.'"

Elizabeth looked amazed. "And what dialect did he say all that in?"

Barbossa nodded wisely. "English. Otherwise I wouldn't have understood it, either."

"Hey, guys, I can speak Swahili!" Norrington sneered.

"Ooh, really? Enrich us!" prompted Barbossa.

Norrington cleared his throat, and said in perfect English, "You are all idiots."

"Wow!" Will clapped cheerfully, "do it again, do it again! I almost understood that, I think!"


	6. Political Confessions

Dear Journal Diary,

I can no longer go on living a lie. So I will say it here, clearly and in ink: I prefer the word "diary" to "journal," and whosoever has a problem with that is irrelevant, firstly; and secondly, whosoever that Whosoever is should not even _know _I use the term "diary," for this Whosoever should not be reading my most personal statements. Whosoever, whosoever you are, if you dare read these words, I will find you and track you down. Though not necessarily in that order. By George, I am awfully defensive this evening.

Goodness knows I would be in a far better mood had I not received daunting word from the Harbor Master this morning. Via radio (yes, I know, enjoy the anachronism—and if you are befuddled over that word, look it up and enrich your vocabulary), I received word that the plane had landed successfully at its destination. Unfortunately, there appears to be a slight fuel shortage. The Harbor Master claimed it had plenty to make the journey both to Captain Jack's old island and back to Port Royal, but someone apparently miscalculated. Either that or they were having a grand time wasting fuel on frivolous antics during the flight. After all, need I reiterate the characters on the plane?

No, I need not—but I will anyway. This diary contains two hundred neatly lined pages and I don't have that many interesting things to say, so I will divulge all that I can now before my wrist collapses into a cramp. Darn you, arthritis!

The Harbor Master, as far as I know, went off searching for some type of fuel resource. I do not know the likelihood of finding one on the island, but he is a crafty man and I am sure he will stumble across something.

As for the rest of the passengers, I know very little, thanks to someone's lack of electronic skills. I spoke to a muffled voice for a brief moment, someone garrulously muttering about what Internet course he should sign up for, and then _click_. Deadened reception. No more radio. Zilch. Nada. Why am I speaking Spanish?

All the Harbor Master told me is that my reluctant son, Commodore Norrington, appears to have developed a rather curious twitch, made all the worse when bantering comments are made regarding his nose. Captain Jack has exhausted every last drop of Captain Morgan, and then some. No word yet about my precious daughter, or new son-in-law, or the other half of my sons (that sounds awkward), Gillette. Process of elimination seems to indicate that Barbossa was the one typing away on his laptop, and that he was the one who disconnected the radio, but I find that highly unlikely. Then again, he's supposed to be dead. 'Tis a strange world we live in.

I must appologize, Diary, but there seems to be a bit of a ruckus happening downstairs. A Mr. Brown has just entered, I believe. One of the servants has just related to me that he is in desperate search for his donkey. The animal is missing again, apparently.

I really must be ending this entry, but as for the dinner party two night's ago: Commodore Groves seemed delighted with the notion of assuming command of the Navy. I have yet to convince him to dye the wigs. I am insisting it will brighten everyone's disposition. Perhaps all we need is to show our true colors. To strike a pose. To feel like a woman.

Whosoever, I suggest you stop reading at this precise instant.

Well, I can only hope that everyone's disposition is increasingly jolly on the island. What a perfect time for the group to reconnect and learn the true meaning of friendship.


	7. Discoveries

Thanks for the reviews! Glad our story's bringing you some laughs... :)

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"Is this your definition of friendship?" Norrington demanded.

"No. It is my definition of 'Norry, you stink, so you must find some suitable clothing to wear.'"

"Jack, I don't believe stealing every article of clothing I own constitutes as a proper solution to that issue."

"It does when the stench threatens our health," Elizabeth broke in. "And I thought the donkey was bad."

At the moment, Norrington was clad only in a skillfully wrapped ensemble made from his used parachute. Skilful as it may have been, however, that did not negate the fact that it had an uncanny resemblance to a diaper. Or a Sumo wrestler's, uh, outfit. Whatever strikes you, dear reader, as more comical. Use that mental imagery.

Norrington, of course, preferred to think that the rest of his companions all had mental _problems_. As he waddled around in his unwanted attire, he demanded immediately that his confiscated clothes be returned.

"What in the name of Britain did you do with them anyway, Jack?"

"I've donated them."

"_Donated_ them?"

"We're helping the orphans," Will explained.

Jack grinned wryly, rummaging through the last bit of their luggage in vain search of alcoholic satisfaction. He came up empty handed. "Actually, I've donated them to science."

"Science."

"Yes, science. Barbossa's online college courses have required that he do an experiment. I believe he's chosen something about the effects of body odor and nose-size on clothing. Your uniform was _made_ for this purpose, Norry."

The Commodore slammed a foot down, making him look like an oversized, pouting child in a rather unattractive form of Pampers. "Jack, this is ridiculous. Do you know how prized that uniform is? All my awards! It represents my status!"

"It's _flaaaammable_!" called Barbossa triumphantly from somewhere behind the plane. "By George, look at that! Like the Fourth of July!"

"We aren't even American!" shrieked Norrington. "My uniform will not commit treason in its final minutes! Can't you pick a bloody British holiday?"

Gillette rushed to his brother's rescue. "Cinco de Mayo!"

"I'm partial to Miracle Whip myself," Will put in. "And hey, I think the donkey's waking up!"

Elizabeth had had enough. Here she was, the only sane and beautiful one here, on some island that claimed to be Pittsburgh, among…well, her companions were hardly worth mentioning at this point.

She grabbed Will's hand and dragged him away from the recovering donkey. A plume of rank smoke was billowing from where Barbossa was apparently roasting Norrington's overcoat like it was Sunday's barbeque. Jack had quickly joined him with Norrington's precious hat. (After all, you can't cook the burger without toasting the buns. And judging by Norry's expression, the buns were getting severely toasted.) The Commodore dashed after him frantically, tugging up the parachute as he went. Gillette seemed torn as to what to do. Finally, he decided that his brother might be in need of some assistance.

"Shouldn't we--?" Will tried, gesturing to the chaos that ensued.

"No, we shouldn't. Wouldn't want to catch whatever ghastly disease they all have."

"Disease?" Will gasped. "Is this that bird thing?"

"No, Will, it isn't the Avian flu."

"Oh. But _Avian_? Weren't we just all on a _plane_? Isn't that dangerous? Aren't we--?"

"Will. Listen to me. I don't know how long we're going to be stuck here, but I'm sure the pilot knows where to find a decent fuel source. After all, this island does appear to be inhabited, what with the landing strip and signs and all."

"The natives," Will nodded dutifully. "From Pittsburgh."

"Yes, whatever." Elizabeth flipped back a trestle of her brown hair. "But I need you to promise that you'll do something for me."

"Anything Elizabeth."

"No matter how long we're stuck here, no matter what horrid things arise, I need you to swear that you'll do this one thing for me."

"I would do anything for you. Point to the mountain, and I'll climb it. Give me a riddle, and I'll solve it. Ask me a question, and—"

"Will." Elizabeth held him by the shoulders, gazing deeply, seriously, into his eyes. "I need you to try… and _act_ _normal_."

He paused, waiting.

"Okay?"

"You mean… That's it? 'Act normal'?"

"Yes. I know it's asking a lot, but…"

"You mean…" Will blinked. "I'm not acting normal now?"

"No, _now_ you are. It's just, when you're around _them_, sometimes I think they wear off on you."

"Well, Norrington's barely wearing _anything_, so I don't think that should be a problem."

"Will." Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her temples. "Go help your donkey."

…

By that evening, things had taken unexpected turns. Jack was hopelessly sober, for one. His mind had cleared enough to realize the odd predicament they all faced. Dusk had fallen, the pilot had yet to return, and everyone was beginning to doubt Norrington's sanity as he continued to insist that their flight director was actually the Harbor Master.

"Norry, I think the night chill is getting to you," Jack commented blithely. "Get closer to the fire."

"Oh, yes, of course. So glad my uniform could provide you all with _heat_," sneered Norrington as he scooted up to the putrid-smelling flames. He swore he could catch sight of the remnants of a charred sleeve. He gazed, tearing up, into the fire. His voice cracked with maudlin protests. "Oh, my dear, dear hard work! Up in smoke." He glared at Barbossa, hissing, "You might as well have bloody burned the flag of England."

"But this is so much more fun," laughed Jack. "How's that report coming, Barbossa?"

"Splendid," the pirate replied, typing in the last bit of his information before logging off his laptop. "Norrington, your uniform has proven to be stench-conductive, combustible, and utterly worthless in the fashion industry. I congratulate you on your donation to science and my ground-breaking experiment."

"You've discovered that clothes catch on fire. What a breakthrough."

"Speaking of breakthroughs," Gillette interrupted, "have we any suggestions on how we should get out of here? The pilot seems to have lost his way."

"Don't be ridiculous," Elizabeth shrugged. "I bet he's right around the corner, fetching us some fuel just in time for takeoff early morning tomorrow."

"Five glasses of rum says he's lost already!" Jack called. Barbossa promptly took him up on the bet.

Gillette sighed. "Well, at least we've all gotten the perfect opportunity to bond with each other!"

"Oh, yes. Why don't we sing campfire songs?" Norrington muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Brilliant idea, bro!" cheered Gillette, slapping the Commodore on the back. "Why don't we?"

"Because we have self-respect," Elizabeth said.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," nodded Norrington gratefully as he rearranged his diaper. "We are a bunch of grown adults here…"

Barbossa jeered. "I think Baby Norry's getting cranky. Does somebody want to put him to bed?"

"Sing him a lullaby!" cackled Jack.

"That is _enough_ from the peanut gallery!"

"Yeah, sorry about that. I ate all the nuts on the plane," Will apologized. Norrington slapped himself on the head.

"That's it, I'm going to bed. And the rest of you can do whatever it is you do, so long as I'm not a part of it!"

They watched as the Commodore stalked off, the white parachute ultimately fading into the horizon.

…

Barbossa poked at the fire with a stick.

The bits and pieces of Norrington's hat sizzled.

A cricket chirped.

Gillette swallowed.

Gillette swallowed a chirping cricket.

…

"Uh… Where do you think Norrington's going?" Will asked finally.

"To bed," replied Jack simply. "Didn't you hear?"

"Uh… Where exactly is 'bed'?"

"_Somewhere…over the rainbow…_" crooned Gillette. "Join in everyone! _Where bluebirds flyyyy_…"

…

While the others continued to guffaw over the sulking Commodore, Norrington had wandered from the island's shore and up a steep slope further inland. He figured he'd camp out somewhere higher, where he didn't have to fret about incoming tides, unruly creepy-crawlers, donkeys, and Jack's mocking commentary.

As he scaled the peek of the hill, he suddenly realized that the fire from the others' campsite, which had been fading into the distance behind him, suddenly exploded with a fresh burst of light. He even had a shadow, despite the hour of night that was settling in around him.

But with a quick glance back, he realized that the small speck of fire down along the beach had not grown brighter at all; rather, this was some new light source drenching the area in luminous golden yellows.

Whatever it was, it was just beyond the peak of the hill.

Stumbling to the precipice, Norrington peered out over the edge, eyes bugging out at the valley that spanned below and across the very heart of the island.

Actually, he couldn't see the valley very well anymore. It was too shrouded by business buildings, hotels, paved streets, swimming pools, and the occasional bar. Streamers of light flowed from lampposts that ran along the roadsides like neatly arranged escorts. There appeared to be a rather distressful traffic jam down the center street.

Norrington, standing there and gaping in his diaper, suddenly began to question his sanity.


	8. Insanity, in other words

Dear Diary and Whosoever is Bothering to Read This,

My life has ceased to matter.

Well, all right, let us not be overdramatic. Or rather, let not _me _be overdramatic. As for you, I don't know you. You might always be overdramatic. You might be as enthusiastic as a sponge. You might call yourself Tony though you're really Lucy and ride a unicycle down the street looking for your lost canteen of mosquitoes and singing the musical "Carmen" in perfect French. You might even wear stockings that don't match your wig.

You could be a raving lunatic for all I know. You probably are for reading this. Or maybe these entries have _made _you lose your mind.

They're certainly making me lose mine.

I was just contemplating such thoughts idly over brunch. I was in the middle of peeling an orange to go with whatever form of meat the chef claimed I was eating (it was Barbossa-free, which was all the reassurance I needed) when I realized how many interesting ways there are to essentially say, "I have gone mad."

For example: I have gone mad.

Or how about: I've lost my marbles.

And then there's: I've gone off the deep end.

Let's not forget: I've been admitted to the funny house.

Here's a goody: My elevator doesn't go to the top floor.

(Actually, my elevator doesn't go anywhere. That would be rather difficult, considering I haven't the slightest idea what that contraption is. Perhaps it's a combination between an elephant and an alligator, which I believe would be rather frightening. In that case, not only do I hope it doesn't go to the top floor, but I hope it doesn't go anywhere, much less near me.)

Whosoever, you can see my dilemma.

And if you can't, you're blind, in which case I don't know how you'd be reading this diary/journal in the first place.

But at any rate. As I was so philosophically lamenting,

_My life has ceased to matter_, or, more specifically, my life has ceased to matter to anyone _important_.

Which basically means my _life_ is _un_important, doesn't it? Oh, the terror of my trials, the bane of my banality, the utter uselessness of my…umbrellas? Underwear? Confound these alliterations!

Groves has since taken full control of the Navy. And by "full control," I mean he has spent his time lollygagging about on the decks of the most expensive ships and strutting around like it's his own personal catwalk. Even Commodore Norrington refrained from being this vain, and that's saying something.

Why, just this morning he complained that the ocean was far too watery to sail upon. I must have looked confused, because he stalked off, griping that I just don't understand.

Perhaps I don't.

Despite all my efforts, though, I can say nothing to change Groves' ways. I've tried suggesting that perhaps he sail out to locate my daughter and her friends. Admittedly, concern plagues me. After three days, they have failed to achieve any sort of correspondence with Port Royal.

I'd like to believe they are having such a jolly good time they have forgotten to return home.

I'd also like to believe the globe is flat, the universe is geocentric, and the Tooth Fairy bestows coins under my pillow for every molar I lose.

Shame to Columbus and Galileo for ruining my fun! And shame to whoever proves the nonexistence of that winged tooth-lover!

Oh, but joy! For good news arrived at my doorstep this morning, bringing with it the light of hopefulness. (And now I will stop copying lines out of poetry books and try to write respectably.)

The blacksmith who I submitted the ad for replied by mail. She recalled hearing of me and says she is looking forward to accepting her position as Port Royal's skilled blacksmith.

The donkey still has not turned up.


	9. Interviews and Fundraising

It turned out Norrington was not having a disturbingly clear hallucination. The cityscape he saw in the middle of the island really did exist.

It turned out that Jack's island had been almost completely commercialized, and much credit was due to our favorite swashbuckling pirate. The Skull and Crossbones planted a brilliant idea into the heads of hundreds of entrepreneurs who figured what better way of attracting famous celebrities than to throw some businesses on an island in the middle of nowhere?

Celebrities like that random kind of stuff. The gaudier, the better.

Which would explain why, though the island was teeming with businesses, they were utterly useless. There was no communication with the outside world (the idea was to create a secret getaway, not a tourist attraction). Perhaps most ironically of all, though, the Skull and Crossbones—which had started this whole commercial revolution—lay in shambles.

Apparently, once Jack had left, the celebs realized how boring it was without the World's Worst (But Helplessly Charming) Pirate. Jack found the decrepit building looking pretty depressing at the end of a large plot of empty, deserted land just on the outskirts of the new, bustling city.

And that was when the metaphorical light bulb clicked on.

The Harbor Master hadn't yet returned. It was becoming painfully clear that their little vacation might be longer than expected.

"Might as well put our time to good use!" Jack decided, and so threw himself into repairing his long-neglected Skull and Crossbones.

Not wanting to be left out, Will decided that he too would try his hand at owning a business. Despite Elizabeth's best attempts to dissuade him, he embarked on his journey to create "Will's House O' Pie," which would serve lemon meringue and featured a room full of life-sized, celebrity sculptures made entirely of (you guessed it) pie.

That gave Barbossa an idea. Why not make an Apple Pie Shop? His most recent online course had been an economics study on supply and demand, and he figured this would be the perfect opportunity to see the principles in action.

Elizabeth felt it was her duty in life to spread beauty and, since she was still furious over not arriving at her original destination, she opened up a Beauty Salon.

Norrington, in futile attempts to fulfill his own dream, opened up an Ice Cream Parlor.

Gillette begged to join him, but Norrington insisted that family-owned businesses only cause trouble among family members: Senseless bickering over wages, profit, and the like, plus all that extra time you had to spend together…_shudder_. It was bad enough they were forced to remain brothers; they should not add fuel to the fire by working in the same area as well.

Well, anyway, that was Norrington's logic. Gillette's logic was to agree, then build a Dyed Sand Shop right next door, where customers could create artwork with the vibrant sand by filling specially shaped vases or sprinkling it on paper. You know, all those annoyingly messy projects kids just _have_ to do? Now they could do it at Gillette's Dyed Sand Shop, and Norrington could accidentally get his ice cream sprinkles mixed up with the sand, and his business could experience all that extra trouble thanks to brotherly love.

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And now, given that the story has probably thrown you, dear reader, for an extra stomach-swirling, spine-bending, vertigo-inducing loop, let's recap. You're probably tired of hearing our narration drag on, so let's go straight to the issue and get the word right out of the characters' mouths. That's just good journalism.

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**INTERVIEWER**: How are you feeling, Jack?

**Jack**: I'm happy. I'm gonna drink myself into more happiness tonight. And me Skull and Crossbone's revived! All that's missing is Ahnold.

**INTERVIEWER**: Doesn't it concern you that you're stuck on an island with apparently no hope of returning to Port Royal?

**Jack**: When the rum runs out, then I'll worry. Until then… We're having a special steak and ale deal over the Crossbones. You doing anything tonight?

Moving on…

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**INTERVIEWER**: How are you feeling, Norrington?

**Norrington**: Well, let's see. I'm in a bloody _diaper_, all of my ice cream is _melting_ or covered in _sand_, and I'm stuck on an island with apparently no hope of returning to Port Royal.

**INTERVIEWER**: Jack seems to be enjoying himself.

**Norrington**: Ah, yes, the model of reason, Captain Jack Sparrow. Why can't we all be more like him?

**INTERVIEWER**: Why not indeed?

**Norrington**: Yes. Drunk, unmotivated, and reckless is the perfect way to go about living one's life.

**INTERVIEWER**: You have a better suggestion?

**Norrington**: Yes. Like… Like fixing up this Ice Cream Parlor, winning back Elizabeth's heart, and rescuing us all from the grasp of this wretched island!

**INTERVIEWER**: And how do you expect to do that?

**Norrington**: I'll tell you just as soon as you quit eating the orange sherbet.

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**INTERVIEWER**: How are you feeling, Elizabeth?

**Elizabeth**: Lovely. That's how this Beauty Salon makes me feel. Look at all the hair supplies, the makeup, the eyebrow tweezers…

**INTERVIEWER**: Ah, yes, for those eyebrows of yours. I'm curious… Where did you get all these supplies from?

**Elizabeth**: I'll explain if you can explain why Barbossa isn't dead.

**INTERVIEWER**: That, my dear, can be rationalized in two words: Plot. Hole.

**Elizabeth**: Well, whatever. I'm just happy I don't have to be bothered for a while. I can preoccupy myself with my business. Sure, the others are all along this street, but it's not like they have a key to this place and can just drop in whenever they—

**INTERVIEWER**: I believe that's Barbossa at your door.

**Elizabeth**: You saw nothing.

**INTERVIEWER**: He seems a bit insistent, doesn't he?

**Elizabeth**: No. He always head butts the door like that. Strangest thing.

**INTERVIEWER**: Maybe I'd better go speak with him.

**Elizabeth**: Yes, please do. Then let me fix your eyebrows. They're a bit bushy, unless you were going for that frazzled, German chemist look.

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**INTERVIEWER**: Barbossa, how are you feeling?

**Barbossa**: I have a headache.

**INTERVIEWER**: Well, you were banging your head against the door. Maybe that has something to do with it.

**Barbossa**: It's part of an experiment I'm doing for my college courses. Response to pain and pain management.

**INTERVIEWER**: Why would you intentionally hurt yourself?

**Barbossa**: Oh, I don't mean _my_ pain management. I mean _Elizabeth's_. My experiment consists of annoying her in several different ways and recording how she responds. Based on the data, I will be able to conclude what will officially cause her to have a certified "freak-out."

**INTERVIEWER**: Do you think that is wise?

**Barbossa**: No. But I find it greatly entertaining. Now, if you don't mind, I must go back to my intensive study.

**INTERVIEWER**: I wish you luck.

**Barbossa**: Yes, thank you. And I highly suggest talking to Gillette next—he appears to have made a startling discovery as of late.

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**INTERVIEWER**: How are you feeling, Gillette? I've heard you made a startling discovery.

**Gillette**: I have? Really?

**INTERVIEWER**: Apparently so. It seems to have likewise startled you.

**Gillette**: Oh. Well, I don't know if it's really anything significant. But I have just received an invitation from some of the Natives to attend a group meeting tonight at dusk.

**INTERVIEWER**: That does sound interesting. What, is it like Boy Scouts?

**Gillette**: Maybe it's a bowling league. I don't know, honestly. But I was very humbled that they invited me.

**INTERVIEWER**: Is anyone else going?

**Gillette**: Hmm… The Natives really didn't say. They just made it sound really important that I be there.

**INTERVIEWER**: What were the Natives like?

**Gillette**: Well, they're from Pittsburgh.

**INTERVIEWER**: Uh-huh.

**Gillette**: I don't know. I'm not the one making this up. But they are. They wear the typical grass skirts and have some body paint. Ever see a Steelers game on TV? Crazy people like that. Except for the ten-foot long spears and shiny daggers, they look completely harmless.

**INTERVIEWER**: That's good to know. Where's the meeting?

**Gillette**: They gave me a map. It says, _eh-hem_, "You shall walk on the flaming stones of death—"

**INTERVIEWER**: _Gasp!_

**Gillette**: "—swim across the bottomless river of unspeakable terror—"

**INTERVIEWER**: _Gasp!_

**Gillette**: "—and then take the subway to the third station and the ceremony will be on your immediate left."

**INTERVIEWER**: _Gasp!_

**Gillette**: I know. Subways are so scary.

**INTERVIEWER**: Well, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for you.

**Gillette**: Oh, no need. Their leader, the Voodoo Master, said he's been waiting to meet me for a long time. I'm sure everything will be perfect. I just wish my bro could come too…

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**INTERVIEWER**: Will, how are you feeling? Uh… Will? Will? Are you here Will? Where art thou, Will? Whilst Will ne'er return? Whyest must thy speakest in this abhorrent syntax?

Will, it turns out, could not be present for an interview. In exchange, oh most patient reader, we return you to your regular, sequential narrative scene, where Will is currently struggling to get his business up on its own two feet.

To do so, he figures the best way to accomplish this goal is to sit down:

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"Will." Jack wandered over to his friend. He looked at him for a long time before asking, "What are you doing?"

"Sitting," Will replied helpfully.

"I see that. You haven't moved from that spot in four days. Elizabeth's starting to worry."

"She is?"

"Not really. But she told me to tell you she was."

"Oh. Okay."

Some time passed. Will switched the tin can he was holding to his other hand, stretched out his legs, and watched as the grass tried to grow but didn't really—it's just a saying, after all.

"So." Jack wandered back to his friend. He looked at him for an even longer time before asking, "What are you doing?"

"Sitting."

"I see that. Why?"

"Because I'm having a sit-in."

"A sit-in." Actually, Will was having a sit-out, since at the moment he had no business to sit inside of, but let's not be picky. "Why?"

"Because I'm protesting."

"Protesting what?" Jack prompted.

"The world's injustices. Racism, child labor, warfare, Norrington's sideburns."

"Ah, I see. A noble cause, fighting those sideburns."

"I figure I'd better do all that I can with my life."

"And you're certainly making strides, sitting there."

Jack and Will looked up at the new voice that joined their conversation. Luckily, the voice also came with a body. A random, floating, omnipotent voice would've been a bit too weird, even for this story.

The voice belonged to Commodore Norrington. Will grinned back at the Commodore's smirk.

"Thanks," the blacksmith said. "I really appreciate your support. And just think: One day, the world will be free of monstrous sideburns."

"And we'll all have Will to thank," Jack added grandly.

"How _selfless _of you," Norrington commended sarcastically. He stared condescendingly at the empty tin can Will was holding, vacant of donations. "So, how has your fundraising been coming along?"

"Pretty well." Will was completely unperturbed. He reached behind him and brought out a two-stringed ukulele. Norrington was about to ask where the heck he'd gotten that from (as I'm sure the reader wants to know, too), when Will asked excitedly, "Want to hear my song?"

Norrington didn't have a chance to answer. Will was already plucking away on alternate strings, singing, to the tune of _Gilligan's Island_:

"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale

A tale like none the same

We started from a Royal port

Upon a rusty plane

We didn't know who flew us 'round

Perhaps our first mistake

Six passengers flew out that day

Our motives all were fake

Norry started trouble in

The cockpit where he rushed

With parachute, he jumped right out

By the donkey, he was crushed

By the donkey, he was crushed

We landed on the shore of this uncharted desert isle

With Norr-ing-ton

Jack Sparrow, too

Eliz-a-beth, and Gill-ette

Bar-bos-sa's here

With all the rest

Here on Jack's marooned iiiiisle!"

Norrington stared at him, a mix of horrification and pity smeared across his pinched face. Jack was clapping.

"Congratulations, Will," Norrington sneered. "You've created a theme song to my miserable life. And I'm sure that just _reaps_ in the profits."

"Sure does. Here's what I got today."

Norrington bothered to peer over the brim. So it wasn't entirely empty. "A nickel. How charming."

"Barbossa donated it this morning. He said he couldn't remember if it was real or not, but it's the thought that counts."

"Of course. Tax collectors feel exactly the same way."

"How's your fundraising going?"

Norrington gave a short, conceited laugh. "Oh, I really like to think of it as _campaigning_. And it's been going rather well, actually," he added, as he unearthed a wad of bills from a ruffle in his diaper. He planned on buying some respectable clothing the second he paid off this month's rent.

"Good for you, Norry!" smiled Will. His eyes lit up hopefully. "Hey, would you like to make a donation?"

"How could I turn down the misfortunate?" Patronizingly, Norrington dropped a dollar into the cup.

"Thanks, Norry! Now I can buy the lot and start building my business!"

"_Pff_." The Commodore looked down at Will, his rival, a blacksmith who—finally—was playing catch-up for once in the 'Impress Elizabeth' Race. "What, with a dollar and five cents?"

"No, with this."

Norrington suddenly realized Will had not just been sitting on the curb of the sidewalk; he'd been planted on top of a briefcase. Taking it out from beneath him, Will opened it to reveal an overflow of bills, much more than what Norrington had been gloating over himself. Norrington was speechless.

"Your dollar just gave me enough!" Will chirped.

"What—how did—"

"The people here are so generous. You just have to know how to ask," Will smiled.

"Impressive, Will," Jack nodded, wondering just how much Will valued their friendship enough to split the money in half…or maybe a 75-25 split. After all, he'd helped him rescue Elizabeth countless times; surely some payback was in order. "Jess how much do ye have there?"

"Um… Twenty thousand dollars, according to the Voodoo Master."

"Twenty _thousand _dollars!" shrieked Jack, dancing on his tiptoes.

"The _Voodoo Master_?" repeated Norrington, looking much less thrilled.

"Like I said, very generous people," Will nodded, then tucked away the cash like it was a birthday present he'd wait to open. He paused after a moment. "Um…by the way… Why are we using American money?"

"Because the authors of this story are too stupid to know the correct conversions of dollars to pounds," retorted Norrington.

"Or cents to…whatever coin we use in Britain," Jack added.

Will twisted his mouth, thinking. "I feel guilty. Should we start using the metric system?"


	10. Voodoo Master

Later that night, Jack was busy drinking rum at his Skull and Crossbones tavern. He was too inebriated to notice that the Harbor Master had mysteriously appeared in the back corner of the room, and that Ahnold had dropped by for a visit. He was not, however, too drunk to see Gillette paying his tab and rising to leave.

"Where you goin'?" Jack drawled, stumbling to his feet. He checked his watch, not realizing it was really just his compass. "It's only… North o'clock. Usually you stay until quarter of West."

Gillette smiled. "Wish I could stay, Jack, but I have a meeting with the Natives of Pittsburgh tonight."

"The Hey Dizz of Zit's Blurb?" Jack leaned closer over the sound-barrier-breaking noise of his tavern. "Is that a new emo band or something?"

Gillette blinked. "I don't know. I'll ask Norry. Norry knows everything."

"He believes diapers are a suitable form of attire," Jack slurred drunkenly. "Aye, he's a smart one."

"Uh… Jack…? Isn't that the Harbor Master back there?"

"He's always here," Jack shrugged indifferently. "Keeps talking to me about fuel or some rambling nonsense like that."

Gillette nodded. It was always easier to agree and make people happy. With a friendly pat on the shoulders, the lieutenant wished Jack a good night of drinking and departed for the Natives' meeting.

The flaming stones of death looked much scarier in the dark. In reality, they happened to be rocks that some rabble-rousers (oh, the youth of this generation) had graffiti-painted. Gillette precariously tiptoed over a **MIKE loves ****JILL**, **JILL loves ****JOHN**, and a **JOHN HATES YOU ALL **before he arrived safely on the other side.

Suddenly, an ominous voice rattled the sky above him. "And now…the bottomless river of unspeakable terror!"

"Oh my. What an ominous voice," Gillette twittered nervously. He stared up into the star-freckled sky. "I say, is there anyone up there?"

There was a significant pause, then a strange whirring like a tape was being rewound.

Then: "And now…the bottomless river of unspeakable terror!"

"Oh my. Just as ominous." Gillette sighed, blinking against the darkness to discern a stream of rushing water ahead of him. White peaks of waves lapped vertically across the flow.

Tentatively, Gillette approached the water. He stubbed his toe on something, and if it had been broad daylight, he'd have been able to see it was a sign. He would have also been able to read what it said:

CAUTION: DON'T FEED THE DUCKS.

There were no ducks, though, so it was kind of a pointless sign.

Gillette dipped the toe of his boot into the water, testing it out. No swamp creature lurched for him, no strange black oil oozed up his shoe, he didn't turn into a pumpkin.

"Seems jolly well safe to me," he concluded, and optimistically dove in. He floundered for a bit against the tide, then gradually adjusted and began the trial of swimming against stream.

He realized his feet could touch the bottom when he was about three-quarters of the way across.

"Oh my, that is troubling," he murmured as he pulled himself ashore. "The river is bottomless, and yet I can touch the bottom. That does not bode well for my height, I believe. I must terrify poor people with my stupendous height. Why wasn't I ever told? Perhaps I should try slouching."

Gillette hunkered down and crawled the rest of the way to the subway. He took the third station, and—like the Voodoo Master had elaborated, the ceremony was on his immediate left.

It was the first authentic thing he'd seen since the arrival on the island. It was a sandy clearing in the middle of the forest. Between the trees, he could hear the ocean not far off.

A ribbon of Tiki torches swept circularly around the area, burning bright crimson with flicks of orange. Wooden bongo drums were set on the sand. A flurry of at least fifty Natives—all dressed in animal hide kilts, painted vibrantly in pastel shades—turned to stare at him. Almost all of them had straight, dark hair and large, gaping eyes. They were covered in body paint, bright jewelry, and an array of feathers.

"Hello," Gillette smiled.

And then they attacked him.

It turned out it wasn't really an attack—just an overly enthusiastic embrace. A rather large, muscular Native lugged him onto his shoulders and tossed him upon a hand-fashioned seat of sorts. It was made of tree bark, leaves, and stone, and did nothing to aid posture. Gillette was then transferred from one hand to the other, sitting on his seat, to the center of the area within the tiki torches. He noticed for the first time the shape of a tall, slender figure silhouetted behind the large campfire.

He recognized him immediately. It was the Voodoo Master.

"The Natives of Pittsburgh welcome you, Oh Mighty Gillette God."

"Please, no need for formalities. Gillette is fine."

"No, we insist on praising your mightiness, Oh Mighty Gillette God."

The lieutenant began to suspect that he had somehow missed something in the course of this meeting. Apparently, no one was in a bowling mood.

"So… What exactly are we doing here?" he questioned politely.

"We are welcoming your presence." The Voodoo Master stepped ceremoniously out from behind the fire. He had on a dramatically decorated kilt that clearly outshone the other Natives. Across his chest was intricate body paint. There were unreadable symbols of squiggled lines, stars, and waves. There were also the words: Hi, my name is Voodoo Master.

It was apparently the translation for those who couldn't read Native Pittsburghian. It inflicted great fear into the hearts of…well, nobody, but to illiterates, it was absolutely terrifying.

Gillette had passed his grade school reading with flying colors, but he had reason to start fretting.

"Um… I'm confused."

"That is to be expected. It seems as if you were brainwashed and taken from us when you were still young."

"I'm a British citizen. And a member of the British Royal Navy."

The Natives clapped and cheered politely. Their Mighty Gillette God had gifted them with his voice again and deserved an encore.

Gillette glanced, unsure, to the cheers and then back to the Voodoo Master. "I'm afraid there's been some mistake. I'm just a humble lieutenant. I'm no leader for your hospitable people."

"Don't worry, your memory will come back soon enough. In the meantime, please accept our unending gratitude for your returned presence."

"Um…"

"When I saw you that day working in your Sand Shop, I knew immediately it was our Mighty Gillette God who had returned."

"Your Mightiness had a Sand Shop?"

The Voodoo Master blinked. "No. That part was irrelevant." Then, waving his hands, he dove in dramatically, "But I saw _you_, fighting off that horrendous arch-nemesis the legends so speak of."

"Who?"

"The Lord of All that is Nasally."

"Ohhh, you mean Norry."

"Yes! That big-nosed creature."

"He's not my enemy," Gillette laughed conversationally, "he's my Siamese-twin brother."

There was a lull of discontented murmurs from the Natives. Gillette looked around nervously as the mood suddenly seemed to swing to a grim discontentedness.

The Voodoo Master waved his hands. "Calm down, calm down. It is obvious that Oh Mighty Gillette God is still suffering from his memory problems."

"But I'm not—"

"_Until then_," cried the Voodoo Master, "let us celebrate his return and hope for a speedy recovery!"

"But I'm fine—"

"_And now_, bring out the bongos!"

Gillette was no less confused, but he clapped along courteously to the entertainment. The Voodoo Master donned a grotesque mask that looked like van Gogh's deranged interpretation of Bill Cosby as a gargoyle. The eyeholes glowed a fierce red, like embers from the fire.

"What a lovely mask," Gillette managed. "But I still don't understand. Why me?"

"Gillette's the best a man can get," the Voodoo Master informed him, muffled, from behind the mask.

"Ah-huh…"

"And now that you've returned, it has come to pass that you will fulfill the prophesy of the Oh Mighty Gillette God."

"And what would be that prophesy?"

"That the Oh Mighty Gillette God will bring forth five creatures from a distant land, and one animal that has no wings but falls from the sky."

"Oh. You mean my friends and the Donkey."

"Yes."

"I don't know if they're going to be cooperative," Gillette said after a pause. "If you have rum, you might convince some of them. The others really aren't big on social get-togethers."

"We have ways to convince them."

"Ooh, like party games…?"

"I believe we exceed such amateur techniques."

"…Because I think Will is really good at Limbo."

Gillette jumped back as the Voodoo Master whipped out some small objects from the other side of the fire and pushed into his hands.

"What are these?" Gillette held one up at random. They looked to be dolls. Strangely recognizable dolls.

"Those are the five that you have been destined to bring forth. The Drunk One. The Good-Looking Clueless One. The Beautiful One. The Ugly One. And the Lord of All that is Nasally."

"Good o' Norry."

"Yes. It took half our supplies just to make his _nose_."

"Um… and the others are Jack, Will, Elizabeth, and Barbossa, right?"

"You know all, Oh Mighty Gillette God."

"I think I know nothing. What are these?"

The Voodoo Master bowed. "These are your Voodoo Dolls, Oh Your Mightiness."

The next morning, Elizabeth was attempting to give Jack a perm in her salon. It wasn't working too well with his dreadlocks. She started taking off the iron when that burning smell began frightening off customers and the smoke made her eyes itch.

"Explain to me," she demanded, "why you've been ignoring the Harbor Master this whole time if he keeps showing up at the Skull and Crossbones? What does that solve?"

"He was enjoyin' a drink," Jack replied. "And jess what are you doing to my hair?"

"He had a fuel source and you _ignored him_," Elizabeth chided, shaking her head. She got rid of the iron and fluffed Jack's dry dreadlocks best she could. Maybe later she'd convince him to go a bit lighter. Some frosting would do wonders.

"I don't see _why_ everyone's so set on leavin' anyway," Jack griped. "We've all got our businesses here; we're having a bloody good time."

"A bloody good time?" Elizabeth repeated, incredulous. "They're losing their minds!"  
Jack raised his chin and retorted in a mockingly pompous British lilt, "I see no such thing happening."

"Norrington's been acting ridiculous," Elizabeth pointed out. "First, he goes jumping out of planes, then he's inexplicably traipsing through the jungle. Then there's that _diaper _incident—for all I know, he'll be running around in a leopard-skinned—"

She broke off as Norrington made his prophetic entrance in a kilt. It wasn't quite leopard-skinned, but it fit much worse. Jack smacked his head on the sink as he collapsed into hysterics.

"I will say this once, Jack Sparrow, and I will not say it again." Norrington shifted awkwardly, trying to remind the pirate of his rank. "Shut. Up."

"What do you think?" Gillette suddenly appeared from behind his twin brother, a glow of pride on his face. "I think it goes lovely with your complexion."

"Yes, it just ruins everyone else's," Jack joked. Elizabeth poked him in the ribs, but a smile was breaking along her face, too, despite herself.

"See, Norry, they _love _it!"

"They are mocking me!" Norrington snapped, pulling away from Gillette. "Where did you find such a ghastly thing? The designers should be tarred and feathered in a public square."

"Some are already feathered," acknowledged Gillette. "It's a gift from the Natives. They gave it to me, but I wanted you to have it."

"They can take it back!" Norrington sneered.

"Keep it on, keep it on!" shrieked Elizabeth.

"Yes, fer the love of Davy Jones, think of the children," laughed Jack. "Spare us."

Norrington's glare could've melted polar icecaps. He turned to Gillette.

"Natives?" he repeated, skeptical and patronizing. "Is this some idea of a joke?"

"N-no," Gillette replied, shaking his head sincerely. "See, they don't like you very much. I thought if you accepted something from them, they'd change their minds…"

"What _Natives_?" Norrington exclaimed. "We're on a deserted island that has been populated with modernized businesses. There's no room for Natives in this."

"But there are—"

"I haven't seen any."

"Because they don't like you."

"_Elizabeth_ hasn't seen any. _Jack _hasn't seen any."

"And yet some of us become them," Jack quipped, pointing at Norrington's kilt.

"I agree," Elizabeth said, interrupting Norrington's attempts at self-defense. "We have to get off this island. You guys are more primitive now than ever before."

The door abruptly flew open. Barbossa, with laptop under his arm, entered. He'd been eavesdropping outside for a while, contemplating on whether seeing Norrington's kilt would provide endless jokes or endless nightmares. He'd decided to risk it.

"We are _not_ more primitive," Barbossa retorted. "Those Internet courses have expanded my intelligence exponentially."

"And that's when we know something's wrong," Norrington snarled.

"Nobody asked you, Kilt Boy," Barbossa snipped.

"That's it! I'm changing out of this and into something more befitting of my station."

"Like a diaper?" Jack suggested.

"No, Norry, you can't take off the kilt! You'll offend the Natives!" Gillette cried.

"Gillette," Norrington stepped toward him, annoyed, "I don't even _know _what Natives you're talking about. No one has seemed to have seen these people but you."

"That's because—well, they're—they're kind of secretive—"

Norrington rolled his eyes. "But yet they find the time to get to know you?"

"Gillette, lying isn't any way to seek attention," Jack said.

"Exactly," Norry agreed.

"Now, wearing a kilt is, but I wouldn't recommend that, either."

Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her beautiful temples. "Has anyone seen Will lately?"

"I believe he's out with his Donkey," Barbossa said.

She sighed, and left the other insanity-stricken people in the salon while she went out in search of her husband.


End file.
